Sly Cooper and the Gang in: One Disguise too Many
by DreamersLogic
Summary: Set between the first and second games, our trio of friends are on another heist. It could be a thoroughly simple job too, but as he sometimes does, Sly insists on a plan with flair. However, an unexpected complication puts the whole team at risk and leads to a rather unorthodox exit strategy.


Sly Cooper and the Gang in: One Disguise Too Many

Ever since their second cookie heist back at the orphanage, Sly reveled in the audaciousness of his exploits. Often, he chose the most outlandish of possible methods, for the thrill of it. As Murray slowed the van to a halt in the alleyway behind the concert hall, Bentley was privately convinced this was one of those many times. How had he let Sly talk him into this?

Their target, Mr. Farthing, was an expert jewel thief, accomplished jeweler, and an indulgent husband, but an utter failure of a businessman. The boutique he owned and ran with his wife was perpetually in financial straits. Mrs. Farthing had bizarre and grandiose ideas and no patience for budgets. Mr. Farthing knew nothing of marketing and even less about women's fashion. Their shop was something of a local curiosity: the butt of more than a few jokes. The misappropriated jewels helped to keep the little business afloat and his wife brimming with pride about what she considered her own haute couture shop.

As such, the vast majority of the stolen gems were recut, reset and sold to a handful of buyers around town almost as soon as Mr. Farthing acquired them. However, earlier last year, the middle-aged hedgehog managed to steal the jewels right off Count Henthorn's heirloom sword: three sizeable diamonds and a remarkable sapphire. Rather than cut the large stones into many smaller ones to resell, he set them in a gold pocket watch of his own design.

Sneaking into the Farthing's home during the night to filch the gem-laden watch was the most obvious course of action. However, Cooper insisted on lifting the watch from Mr. Farthing's own pocket during tonight's fundraiser at the concert hall.

As they readied their disguises in the back of the van, Bentley reviewed the schedule. "We'll enter through the back door that leads to the equipment room. The short series of performances by classically trained musicians should be ending soon and the attendees will adjourn to the attached ballroom to sip champagne and snack on appetizers while the director reacquaints them with the charity they are supporting this evening." The turtle pointed to the adjacent dancing hall on the printed floorplan spread between them and motioned to a picture of the director, a gray-whiskered ferret with a welcoming smile. "Murray, you're to wait backstage and make sure we have a clear path back to the van. If anyone asks, claim you're the driver for one of the musicians. Sly and I will join the guests in the ballroom. I'll keep an eye on the security in the room, while Sly will hob nob, angling to get close to Mr. Farthing."

Bentley checked the cufflinks of his white waiter's jacket. Beside him, Murray struggled with the bow tie of his tuxedo.  
"That's the plan," Sly confirmed. "And the moment I have the watch, I'll excuse myself, having noticed a 'stain' on my cumberbund. That'll be your cue to get out of there, Bentley." He pressed the fake mustache more firmly to his upper lip and set the monocle in place. "Ready?"

Murray straightened his bow tie at last and they all nodded. Exiting the van, they crossed the narrow street and walked down to the door. Luckily, no one was around and Sly made quick work of the simple lock, to let them inside.

"Best of luck, guys," Murray wished his friends as he stayed behind, between the dressing rooms and the equipment room.

As Bentley and Sly moved from backstage towards the door that led to the far aisle, a roar of applause swelled from the audience as the last strains of a deep bass voice echoed their last in the immense space. Their timing was impeccable. The crowd rose to their feet, stepping into the aisles, in time for Bentley to step into the auditorium and hurry, as if late, towards the ballroom. Sly waited for Bentley to disappear among the crowd, before stepping into the aisle himself. He started chatting with the nearby concert-goers, as they sluggishly funneled towards the doors.

"Oh, the great Angelo Parvoratti is never to be missed, if one can help it!" he agreed heartily with the gentleman beside him.

Aside from the familiarity of the singer's name, something else niggled at the back of Sly's mind, as he continued up the aisle. He didn't have much interest in classical music, but there was something about Parvoratti, something he struggled in vain to recall. When the answer didn't immediately present itself, he dismissed the vague concern and gushed over the musical performances with the closest guests.

By the time Sly crossed the threshold into the ballroom, Bentley had a platter of canapes balanced on one hand, as he maneuvered between guests. Scanning the room, Sly spotted Mrs. Farthing almost instantly. Adorned in a dress that alternated colors of bright green and near florescent orange in hazy, indefinite stripes that trailed down to her ankles, she was by far the most shocking sight in the room. Between the mix of green and orange in her dress and the magenta flowers strewn about her hair, she resembled a scoop of rainbow sherbet ice cream that had started melting on the dance floor. She beamed under the near constant attention and stares, laughing and smiling as she chatted with her husband.

There were a few security personnel posted about the room and near the doors, each wearing a little brass nameplate designating them as 'Security', but there were not enough of them to make either Sly or Bentley worry. In the wash of black and white suits, Sly blended in perfectly and from a distance, it was impossible to distinguish one gentleman from another.

The clink of glasses, murmur of voices and smell of savory pastry appetizers filled the room. Sly claimed a glass of champagne as another waiter passed close to him and leisurely talked and walked in the direction of the Farthings. His gaze flicked from diamond studded cuff-links to oversized emerald earrings, from platinum necklaces to antique, jewel-encrusted canes. He wondered if these philanthropists donated as much wealth as they flaunted to this event. Holding his breath, he passed an elderly bear doused in so much floral perfume his eyes nearly watered. He was halfway to the Farthings, when the tap of a finger on a microphone drew everyone's attention to the director. Sly paused, as everyone else did, to listen.

"I want to thank everyone for coming here tonight to support the Grace Dolores Fitzherbert fund," the director started and rambled on, while Sly kept the Farthings in his peripheral vision. He clapped along with the rest of the guests, when the director mentioned the success of last year's fundraiser, and again when the speaker mentioned this year's ambitious goal. "But before I let you go to enjoy the refreshments, I'd like to announce the winner of our 'Champagne with Parvoratti' raffle. Mrs. Donatelle, if you would do the honors of choosing the winning ticket."

As the director held the glass bowl, half-full of green raffle tickets towards his rotund and silver-haired assistant, Bentley nearly tripped over his own feet in alarm. Angelo Parvoratti was here! This was terrible!

Backstage, Murray aimed to look casual. Checking his wrist watch from time to time as if waiting on someone, he smiled and nodded at the few elegantly dressed musicians that wandered through, depositing their cases and sheet music in various rooms before heading to the dance hall. No one stopped to ask why he was there. This was going much smoother than he'd expected. Murray watched one of the stage hands pull out a pack of cigarettes and head towards the back door. Depending on how long the man took to smoke, he could prove somewhat problematic.

"Oh, thank the stars! But what are you doing out here?" A sonorous voice asked beside him.

Startled, Murray's head whipped the other direction, and he found himself staring at himself in a nicer suit. "M. . . Mr. Parvoratti?" Murray blinked in surprise.

The world renowned singer took ahold of Murray's arm and pulled him into the largest dressing room. "After the last incident, I told my agent never again! The Grace Dolores Fitzherbert fund is near and dear to my heart, naturally, and I immediately agreed to perform at this event, but he didn't tell me until this evening that he'd also offered to have two fans share a limo ride with me afterwards as one of the 'prizes'. The gall! I was of a mind to fire him tonight, but here you are! And I must say, it's quite remarkable."

Shutting the door, the opera singer wheeled Murray around so that they both faced the oversized mirror. Murray was a touch taller. Angelo's stage makeup gave him a slightly darker tone, but otherwise they were indistinguishable. The tuxedos differed more than the men wearing them.

"But Mr. Parvoratti," Murray started to object.

"Your voice! Of course, but no matter. Just explain that you strained your vocal chords while singing, that you're still getting over a cold. Must protect the voice, after all! Here take some cough drops to help play along." The singer interrupted and reached for the pocket of the thick wool coat hanging nearby to fish out a handful of mint flavored lozenges. "You can't fathom my relief. After the last stalker," Angelo continued to prattle on about the ordeal, as Murray accepted the cough drops mutely and his thoughts spun in too many directions.

Years ago, Bentley had pointed out the uncanny likeness between the famous singer and himself. Fascinated, Murray secretly started listening to Parvoratti albums. He rather adored the singer that looked like him, and now, Mr. Parvoratti wanted him to be his stand-in for a limo ride. He wasn't sure how to decline. He really wanted to help, but he was on a job. The guys were counting on him.

Suddenly, Bentley's frantic voice sounded over the earbud. "Murray! You need to get out of the concert hall."

"Too late."

"Excuse me?" Angelo paused in his diatribe of woe.

"I meant, it's getting late," Murray scrambled to cover.

Angelo nodded. "Quite right." He frowned at Murray's rented tuxedo. "I can't abide fans believing I would wear such a plain ensemble. Here, switch waistcoats and jackets with me."

Mr. Parvoratti unbuttoned and shrugged out of his coat and then his waistcoat. When Murray didn't move, he stopped. "Are you alright, my good man? For shame, I haven't even asked for your name yet."

Little tears gathered in the corners of Murray's eyes. No one had ever called him a good man before, and Mr. Parvoratti wanted to know his name. That decided him. With a nod, he answered, "I'm Murray." He fumbled with the buttons of the jacket. "How will I return your clothes?"

"Excellent met, Murray. As for their return, just call my agent for his address and deliver them there."

Within a couple minutes, they'd swapped the clothes and a moment later, there was a knock on the dressing room door. Holding a finger up to his lips, Angelo quietly stepped to the side of the room and behind a clothes rack, ducking down so as not to be visible. Once he was out of sight, Murray opened the door. A middle-aged sheep in a flowing black dress with silver beadwork and a younger kangaroo in a simpler, lavender dress stood to either side of the director.

Murray unwrapped one of the cough drops and popped it into his mouth as the director introduced them in turn, "Mr. Parvoratti, this is Ms. Ewe and Ms. Martel. They are the lucky guests to join you for the limo drive. The car and driver should be waiting for you outside the back door."

He coughed lightly into his hand before answering around the lozenge in his mouth, "Thank you, director."

All three of them looked aghast at the sound of Murray's voice, but the director recovered almost instantly as he stepped away. "Have a lovely time." He hurried back in the direction of the main hall.

"I'm afraid the singing has aggravated my cold. I do apologize." Murray tried his hardest to sound like Angelo.

The women's faces changed from shock to sympathy. "Oh, no!" Ms. Martel gasped.

"How terrible," Ms. Ewe agreed.

"Shall we?" He motioned towards the back door as he stepped in to the hall.

They nodded empathically and followed him to the door.

Back in the dance hall, Bentley nearly jumped when the catering manager berated him for slacking off and demanded that he start serving a platter of mushroom filled gougeres. With an apology, he hustled into the crowd with the plate held aloft. He had to catch Sly's attention. From the half of Murray's conversation that Bentley heard, it was obvious that Murray had abandoned his post, and he was the one with the keys to the van. As he entered the crush of people, he slowed to keep from bumping into any of the guests. The small appetizers vanished from the platter well before he approached Sly and not wanting to catch the catering manager's attention again, he retreated to grab another tray.

Across the dance hall, Sly finally arrived at his destination, announcing himself with a compliment to Mrs. Farthing, "If I may say, madam, you exude the very essence of summer."

"Oh," Mrs. Farthing turned towards Sly, with a devious slant to her gaze. "Do you think my fashion a little premature then?" She asked archly. It was only the first week of May.

"Not at all! You give us all hope for the warmer, sunnier days yet to come," Sly replied without hesitation.

Mrs. Farthing's smile brightened and a little blush rose to her cheeks. Beside her, Mr. Farthing's chest swelled. "That is my dear to a T," he concurred and placed his hand gently upon the small of her back.

Mrs. Farthing's attention turned towards her husband, as her blush deepened. "You old flirt," she teased.

"Is it still flirting, if it's true?" he parried, before looking back to Sly. "My apologies. Mr. and Mrs. Farthing," he extended his free hand to Sly.

"Mr. Connell. Pleased to make your acquaintance," Sly answered as he shook Mr. Farthing's

Out of the corner of his eye, Sly noticed the top of the pocket watch barely cresting Mr. Farthing's pants pocket. However, it was enough to reveal that the chain had a rather simple clasp attaching it to the watch. This was almost too easy.

"And are you a purveyor of fashion as well, Mr. Connell?" Mrs. Farthing asked.

"No, just an admirer of it," Sly answered and the conversation continued pleasantly as he aimed to engage their full attention in chatting, so that they might not notice the movements of his hand at his side.

Twelve minutes later, as Mrs. Farthing animatedly regaled them with her summer plans for the boutique, Cooper was on the brink of making his move, when Bentley literally bumped into him. The platter of appetizers collided with his side and while the pint-sized genius did not drop the entire plate of mushroom filled, cheesy pastries, a few of the rounded appetizers bounced off Sly and tumbled to the floor. Gasps sounded from nearby guests as Bentley apologized, "Excuse me, sir. That was entirely my fault. Here let me help you clean that stain from your suit."

Sly excused himself from the Farthings and started to follow Bentley, in the direction of the toilets. Flushed in the face, the catering manager intercepted them as they reached the edge of the crowd. "After you help this gentleman, you can leave," he directed his first, sharp comment to Bentley, as he relieved the turtle of the platter, before turning his attention to Sly. "My apologies, sir. Please send me the dry cleaning bill and I will be certain to take care of it." He passed Sly one of his business cards.

"Thank you." Cooper replied and then followed Bentley in the direction of the bathrooms.

The men's room was blessedly empty when they stepped inside. "What gives, Bentley? I was supposed to claim to have a spot on my suit. You weren't supposed to make one." He brushed a few loose crumbs from his waist and grabbed a hand towel from the dispenser to wet.

Bentley whirled around to face the master thief. "Murray's gone AWOL. He ran into Mr. Pavoratti backstage and now he's posing as the singer for those raffle winners."

"What?" Sly asked and then the realization dawned on him. Murray looked exactly like Mr. Pavoratti. That was why the name had sounded so familiar. "Oh." He dabbed the wet towel against the grease stain on his dark green cumberbund. "So, where is he?" The director had not provided any details concerning 'champagne with Pavoratti'; he'd simply announced the winners.

"Cruising the town in a limousine with a chilled bottle of bubbly and two women." Bentley's tone was decided bitter and Sly wondered if he was a touch jealous.

"Did you happen to bring the spare keys to the van?" Sly asked even as he suspected the answer.

"No."

With a deep breath, Sly took stock of the situation: Murray was off, entertaining ladies, for an unspecified length of time, his cumberbund was spotted with grease and now also quite damp and, finally, Bentley was fired from posing as a waiter. Some of their past jobs had gone decidedly worse, but this situation was creeping towards the top 5 most gone-awry heists.

"Should we abort?" Bentley pressed.

"Never!" Sly was almost offended. He could get the watch, he was certain, without much trouble. Getting away before Mr. Farthing noticed its absence was the trick. "Since you're no longer serving refreshments, you can work on our exit plan, while I return to grab the watch."

Tossing the damp towel in the bin, Sly headed back to the ballroom. Bentley stared after Sly, in disbelief. What was he supposed to do? Call a cab? As he walked into the foyer, he considered the possibility of breaking into the van, hotwiring it, rigging the pedals so he could reach them and the steering wheel at the same time and then his train of thought ground to a halt. There was no time for all of that.

In a fit a pique, he called Murray. "I hope you're having fun, Murray. You've left us without a means of escape and Sly's insisting we still move forward." Over the microphone, he could hear a woman giggle, as another one talked.

"Meet me out front," Murray replied.

Seated across from him in the limo, Ms. Martel stopped laughing and blinked at Murray. "Excuse me? What was that?"

Murray coughed, as he struggled to think on his feet. "Do you mind if we meet up with a couple more guests? Since I'm not drinking and there's another bottle of champagne, it seems like a waste."

Earlier, when the ladies asked why he wasn't drinking, he'd blamed it on the cold, but Murray didn't like alcohol at all. Angelo Parvoratti, on the other hand, loved champagne. The ice bucket had boasted two chilled bottles, when they'd started this ride. He knew nothing about wine, but it looked expensive. After popping the cork, he poured the women tall glasses, accidentally overflowing on the first one. Murray tried his best to say little and focused on keeping the ladies' glasses filled. They seemed to buy his complaint of a sore, tender throat and enjoyed the champagne. He'd complimented them on looking lovely and for supporting the Grace Fitzherbert fund. They chatted briefly about Angelo Pavoratti's albums. Ms. Martel was an avid fan and thrilled at having won the raffle. Meanwhile, Ms. Ewe was not particularly familiar with opera and was more thrilled that she'd won something for the first time in her life. The young kangaroo and Murray debated over the best album for Ms. Ewe to give a listen, if she wished to appreciate Parvoratti's talents. That had been the bulk of his contribution to conversation. He'd answered a few questions, thankful that he was more than a little familiar with Parvoratti, so that he might answer correctly or at least take a guess. All the while, the ladies sailed right past tipsy and into inebriated, with most of a bottle shared between them and having not had a chance to eat much before they left.

Ms. Ewe hiccupped before answering Murray's question, "Sure! The more the merrier."

"Yes. I'm not sure how much more champagne I should have," Ms. Martel agreed. "You know, you're a lot more approachable than I expected," she commented before blushing and announcing, "I probably shouldn't have said that."

Murray fumbled with the buttons on the door of the car, hunting for the one that would roll down the window between the driver and passengers. There were so many choices. He ended up turning on the radio, rolling down two other windows and opening the sun roof.

"Whoa!" Ms. Ewe cringed in the brisk cross breeze that swept through the limo as the windows came down. The ladies' dresses fluttered in the strong gust of wind and they squinted against the harsh breeze.

"Which one of these lowers the driver's window?" Murray asked aloud as he rolled up the two other windows and turned off the radio.

Each of them turning to a different side of the car, the ladies started pushing buttons too. Multi-colored lights started flashing. "Oh my gosh!" Ms. Martel exclaimed. After another button press, a back compartment opened up to reveal more glasses and ice.

Ms. Ewe happened upon the button that opened the channel between the two compartments of the limo and the driver's voice range out. "Is there something you need?"

"Yes!" A trio of voices answered and then the two ladies burst into a fit of giggles.

"If you'd swing by the concert hall again, there are two additional passengers to pick up. One in a suit with a green cumberbund and another in a waiter's outfit," Murray explained.

"Of course, sir."

Ms. Ewe turned the channel off. "We're picking up one of the waiters?"

"Can he bring food?" Ms. Martel asked with her eyes alight.

"He's an old friend. Ummmm. I'll ask?" The idea of food sounded marvelous to Murray as well.

Without thinking Murray turned on his small ear bud and mic to contact Bentley, "Hey, B-Bruno," he caught himself a second before blurting out the name. "Can you bring some of those appetizers with you?"

"You've got to be joking."

"The ladies are hungry," Murray explained.

Grumbling, Bentley hung up while the women stared at Murray, with mouths agape. "Wait! Is that who you were talking to earlier?" Ms. Martel put the pieces together.

"Yes. Because. . ." he scrambled for a reason and swished the cough drop around in his mouth to buy time, "I like to know how the fundraising is going."

"That is so sweet," Ms. Martel appeared misty eyed.

Murray tapped the communication devise on again. "And Bruno, please give me an update on the fundraiser."

"Oh, I have an update for you," Bentley threatened under his breath, as he paused beside the service door that led into the dance hall. Under his arm, he held a random, lidded container from the stacks that had originally ferried the appetizers to the concert hall.

He waited until all the wait staff were mingling with the guests and the manager's attention was elsewhere to sidle up to the table of food and slide the contents three plates of various bite-sized appetizers, and one plate of smalls sweets, into the container. Bentley darted away after the last bit tumbled into the container. Snapping the lid in place on top, Bentley contacted Sly, "Sly, we need an update on the fundraiser, apparently. Meet me and Murray out front."

Sly nearly choked on a sip of champagne at Bentley's demand, as he wondered at Murray's reasoning.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Farthing asked in a concerned tone.

"Inhaled at the wrong moment," he explained and coughed as the couple looked at him with expressions of sympathy.

As he continued to cough, he used that moment of distraction to unfasten the watch from its chain and slip it from Mr. Farthing's pocket into his own. They were both so concerned with his throat and cough that neither of them noticed his sleight of hand. Excusing himself, he headed for the exit. With the watch securely in his pocket, he had no intention of making a detour to check on the progress of the fundraiser. He'd simply make something up.

However, as he reached the door, the director announced, "Already, we are less than $10,000 away from our goal. Such amazing and generous patrons in this room."

With a smile, Sly continued to walk out of the ballroom and towards the front doors. Behind him, the director's voice droned on, reiterating the virtues of the Grace Dolores Fitzherbert fund, but he had everything he needed. He stepped outside to see Bentley waiting at the curb with a plastic tub tucked under his arm. Stopping beside him, Sly asked, "How soon will Murray be here?"

"How should I know?" Bentley asked irritably. "And today, my name is Bruno."

Sly's eyebrow quirked upwards, but his friend did not expound upon the statement. Frowning, Bentley glanced first one way down the street and then the other as a black stretch limo turned onto the block and rolled towards them. As the car slowed to a stop beside them, Bentley reached for the door, but it immediately flew open. The interior was washed in bright alternating colors as various lights flashed. "Bruno, you're my hero!" An attractive kangaroo in a lavender dress exclaimed.

Stunned, Bentley blinked at the young lady. "Uh, of course," he replied, as she grasped the container of appetizers and he passed it to her.

She slid further into the limo with the food as first Bentley and then Sly climbed into the limo. After shutting the door, they settled into various seats and the driver pulled away from the curb. Introductions were made between Ms. Martel, Ms. Ewe, 'Bruno', and 'Mr. Connell'. A smile tugged at the corner of Sly's mouth as he asked, "Why are the party lights on?"

Ms. Martel blushed as she stammered out an explanation. "I can turn them off," she offered and then looked back at the panel of buttons along the side. "As soon as I find that switch again," her voice trailed off.

"With this many people, it feels more like a party now," Ms. Ewe suggested and then hiccupped.

"Leave them, then." Sly agreed.

"Let me get you two some glasses," Murray offered and plucked two additional flutes from the back compartment.

Lifting the second bottle of bubbly from the ice bucket, Bentley shook off the ice chards clinging to its base and popped the cork. He filled the two new glasses and poured a bit more for the ladies as well, as they passed around the container of appetizers. Ms. Ewe scooted closer to Bentley. He wondered whether she wanted to be closer to him or the champagne. Flustered at the thought, he swallowed on a sudden lump in his throat.

When Sly passed the container to Murray, Murray was dismayed at how small and few the appetizers were. There couldn't be more than five dozen. He'd said the food was for the ladies, but this was hardly enough to appease him alone. He had to be strong! With determination, he popped only two of the appetizers into his mouth, before passing the container along. Whatever they were, they were delicious! "How is the fundraiser going?" He asked, trying not to think about the food.

"The director announced that they were less than ten thousand from their goal at the time I left. It should prove a grand success," Sly relayed.

Ms. Martel clapped in delight as her mouth was full and Ms. Ewe paused with a gougere in her hand to say, "That's wonderful!"

Murray eyed the container of appetizers, situated between the two ladies across from him. It was too far away to reach, but he was sure there were little cakes somewhere in the mix of food and there certainly wasn't enough of them for everyone: at least, not the way he counted. He was supposed to be impersonating Mr. Parvoratti, though. He started sweating under the pressure. He wanted all the cake, but what would Parvoratti do? Ms. Martel caught him staring and he blurted out, "Would you pass me a cake?"

Sly stared at Murray in disbelief. The champagne flute fell right out of Bentley's slackened grip, spilling onto the floor, and everyone started talking at once.

"Of course," Ms. Martel answered as she turned to pick out a cake.

"Oh, no!" Ms. Ewe lifted her skirt away from the spill.

"My apologies." Bentley scrambled to mop up the wine with his handkerchief.

After Bentley cleaned the mess and poured a new glass of champagne for himself, Sly proposed a toast, "To a successful, and surprising evening."

Everyone with champagne raised their glasses, and Murray held aloft the little paper wrapped square of cake in salute.

Half an hour later, both bottles of champagne were empty and only crumbs and crumpled bits of paper remained in the container that once brimmed with food. Between Sly and Bentley, they'd preoccupied the women almost entirely with questions: asking after their interests, hobbies, careers and dreams. Flattered by the attention, Ms. Ewe and Ms. Martel chatted so much that the trio of thieves never uttered more than a sentence or two about themselves. The pint-sized genius kept pouring the bubbly into the ladies' glasses with the aim to muddle their memories of the whole limo ride, but clearly Ms. Ewe suspected he was plying them with champagne to other ends. She'd started the ride by sitting near him, then eventually scooted close enough that their knees touched.

Pretending that his cellphone vibrated with a call, Sly 'answered' and announced that he needed to attend to a family emergency. The ladies gasped and offered their hopes that everything would turn out alright in the end. Sly assured them it was only a minor medical situation with his father and asked that the limo let him off at the nearest corner. After conveying that message to the driver, the limo slowed to a halt accordingly and Sly said his adieus to his friends and their unexpected companions. Ms. Martel blushed as Sly bent over her hand to kiss it. Meanwhile, Ms. Ewe gave only a wane smile at the same parting.

Pausing before he stepped out of the limo, Sly called over his shoulder, "I'm sure I can trust the two of you to escort Ms. Ewe and Ms. Martel safely back."

"Of course!" Murray agreed heartily.

"I'm sure they will," Ms. Ewe declared as she gazed meaningfully into Bentley's eyes.

Bentley nodded, rather than trust his voice. After Sly closed the door, the limo pulled away, heading back to the concert hall.

"Such a shame that the champagne is gone," Ms. Ewe began, with a slight slur in her voice. "I don't think you had more than a glass, Bruno."

"Well, it was my fault for spilling my first," Bentley explained, glad now for the mishap.

"I have a nice bottle of chenin blanc, chilled in my refrigerator at home. You're more than welcome to have a glass or two of it," she offered and placed a hand on Bentley's leg.

Bentley blushed to the tips of his ears. "I'm afraid I can't," he stammered with the excuse, "I left on bad terms with the catering manager this evening and I'd like to get my job back."

"Was it because you came out to join us?" Ms. Martel asked in alarm.

"No, a mishap while serving."

Unclasping her clutch purse, Ms. Ewe extracted a small pad of paper and a pen. After scrawling her phone number onto a page, she tore it out and passed it to Bentley. "Then afterwards, if you feel like celebrating." Now, she was blushing as well.

Across from her, Ms. Martel grinned broadly and glanced away. "I've had such a lovely time, Mr. Parvoratti. You and your friends have been such wonderful company. I am so glad you invited them along," she started to talk to Murray.

"It was delightful to meet you two." Murray replied, but privately thought that the whole situation would have been vastly improved with at least twice as many appetizers and three times the number of cakes, not to mention some nice soda or a milkshake. He would have to stop by a delicatessen or café for a couple sandwiches and half a dozen pastries on the way to the hideout.

When the limo slowed to a stop in front of the concert hall, Bentley fairly leapt out of the car, holding the door open as Ms. Ewe stepped out unsteadily. Gripping the door for balance, Ms. Ewe paused to take a deep breath and straightened before walking gingerly to the stairs. Once there, she turned and waited as Ms. Martel emerged from the limo.

Likewise, the young lady weaved a touch, as she exited, taking small strides away from the curb. Lastly, Murray emerged with no less grace than he usually wielded. Even sober, someone might suspect by his gait that he was slightly inebriated. After Bentley closed the door, the limo drove away, leaving the four of them alone on the sidewalk. It was at that moment, Bentley realized he'd left the empty appetizer container on the seat of the limo. Whoops. Well, that would be alright, better really, as long as neither of the ladies thought of it. He watched them carefully. Ms. Ewe started hiccupping again.

"Ben – Bruno," Murray caught himself at the last moment. "I'll see you later. I want to make sure these ladies get a cab."

"Thanks, Angelo." Bentley replied archly, but pounced on the opportunity to escape and jogged up the stairs, even as Ms. Ewe stuttered a farewell around her hiccups.

Ms. Martel canted her head. "Are you not joining the reception?" She asked Murray.

"Are we not rejoining the reception," Ms. Ewe's question was punctuated by continuing hiccups.

"I'd like to lay down," Ms. Martel admitted.

"That does sound good." Ms. Ewe agreed.

Murray hailed a cab with ease. It was impossible to miss a magenta hippo in a tuxedo. Returning to the ladies, he offered an arm to each and they wobbled to the waiting cab as the women discussed hotels and directions and determined that sharing a cab was perfect.

Bending down, Ms. Ewe half tumbled into the cab first. "Tell Bruno I hope to see him again, if you catch up with him," she said as she righted herself and scooted over to the far seat.

Ms. Martel gave Murray a light kiss on the cheek. "You're almost as amazing in real life as you are on stage."

Murray blushed and stammered, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He felt as if he might bust at the seams with pride and meanwhile, Ms. Martel flushed nigh crimson and hurriedly ducked into the cab after Ms. Ewe. She had barely pulled in the lavender skirt of her dress before Murray shut the door behind her: a near miss.

He waited until the cab pulled away. Both ladies waved at him and he waved back, waiting until the cab was out of sight to walk to the alley. There was no way he was walking through a concert hall lobby full of opera fans. Bentley was standing by the van when Murray arrived.

Bentley shook his head vehemently. "Never again. _Never_ again. You're waiting with the van from now on, Murray."

Over their headsets, Sly piped in, "I don't know. I've never escaped via limo before, with champagne even. It was pretty amazing, if you ask me." Apparently, the two had been talking before Murray had arrived.

Bentley groaned. "It was a near disaster."

Murray unlocked the van and the two of them climbed inside.

"It might be best if we avoid having Murray pose as world-renowned celebrities in the future," Sly conceded.

Murray pouted. He'd rather liked the idea of playing Mr. Parvoratti's double again. Sly had a point though; it was impossible to keep a low profile and also be a stand-in for the opera singer. He still had to return Mr. Parvoratti's tuxedo somehow too. He squirmed out of Mr. Parvoratti's coat and waistcoat, setting them carefully aside. They were altogether too warm and in the high stress situation, he had sweated profusely. In the midst of these conflicting emotions and troubles, his stomach took a moment to give a near ferocious growl, followed by a distinctly hollow ache.

"Time to pick up some grub," he announced as he started the engine.

Murray was back.


End file.
